


Sweet Dreams are Made of These

by nththatclvr



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nththatclvr/pseuds/nththatclvr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night holds worse than demons than Ellen has faced before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams are Made of These

There was a rage that sat at the bottom of her stomach, churning and burning. It came out in the worst fashion, on the nearest target. Ellen pulled the knife form the bed side table. The handle was cool in her hand as she drove it into her daughter’s chest. The blood soaked the sheets quickly. The gurgling sounds of Jo’s dying breaths fill the room, no growling hound to compete with. It was the last time that Ellen would be soaked in her daughter’s blood; she was making sure of that as she drove the knife repeatedly into Jo’s body. The anger died as quickly as it had come up, Bill hadn’t been the only one that had issues controlling himself. Dropping the knife to the side of the now cooling body, she began to sob. Tremors went through her with each breath. Wrapping her arms around her dead child she brought her to her chest. She had killed Jo, her only living family, the only one that she wanted to keep safe. As the warm blood that soaked her clothes cooled, she heard a familiar voice from behind her.

“You’re angry. I understand. ”Her head swung around to look at Jo. She was in the Roadhouse, that familiar smell of beer and iron and wood was something she wouldn’t be able to ever forget. The bar was beside them. “Let’s just think about this. Everything’s okay, I’m alive…” The knife that she had used to stab Jo before was in her hand again. She could feel the blood on her clothes, wet and sticky. She could have stopped Jo from hunting then, after her escapade in Philly. She should have said everything then not just how John killed Bill. But she hadn’t. The knife slid into Jo’s body again, her weight falling onto Ellen as she held her up. She looked to the knife between then and then met her mother’s eyes, confusion and betrayal filled those deep brown eyes, eyes she shared with her father. The words tumbled from Ellen’s mouth though she didn’t know where they came from, “I will always love you, baby.”

“Mom…I…” the light in her eyes faded with the sound of her voice and her full weight caused Ellen to stumble, the blade slipped from her hand and she let the body fall. More blood was spreading across the floor of the bar. Her knees buckled. She collapsed into the puddle of blood that poured from her daughter. It was always going to be this. Ellen watching her daughter die and every time knowing it is her fault. Her beautiful baby girl was laying cold and dead on the floor again. Blood soaked the blonde hair as Ellen tried to smooth it away, trying to look at her daughter and smearing blood across her face. An anger swelled in her chest as tears began to roll down her cheeks. She was angry at herself more than anything. She had one job as a parent to protect her family.

She scrambled for the knife she had dropped, slipping in the blood and falling. As soon as her hand was wrapped around the handle of the knife, there was a faint crying from the back. She blinked away the tears that had come. The crying became shrill, terrified. There was a crash and Ellen was on her feet racing to the sound, knocking through the door to the back room and finding herself in the little living room she had called home with Bill and Jo. The tall blond hunter had a bottle of Jack in his hand. He was stumbling; there was a broken lamp a couple feet away from him. He raised a hand, pointing a finger at Ellen. “You left her alone. The one that you didn’t miscarry you mistreat. The brat would have been better off not being born with a mother like you.”

She turned from him. His commented were tired and worn and true but she let them roll off. Jo was her miracle and she was doing her best to be the greatest mother she could. Their toddler was in the other room, crying. She scooped her up into her arms. The crying had stopped though. There were bruises on her face, a cut, blood. Her daughter wasn’t alive, blonde pigtails hung limply from her daughters head. She cradled her head against her shoulder. “It’s okay, it’s okay. That’s my good girl.” She laid a soft kiss on her daughters head. She set her daughter down gently, wiping the tears away from the bruised cheeks.

The man responsible was in the doorway, the fifth of Jack still in his hand. He looked so defeated; he always did after he hit the point in his drinking when he knew he had done something wrong. He offered the fifth to her as if he wanted her to take it so he could stop drinking; lord knows he wouldn’t stop himself. She knocked it out of his hand, the bottle breaking and filling the air with the cutting smell. He looked confused until he felt the knife enter his flesh. Twisting it she could see the pain flicker across his face. Relief ran through her, bitter relief. She pulled the knife out and watched him fall to the floor, a crumpled mess of a man she had once thought so strong and good.

“Mom?” That voice was haunting her. She looked from the body of the man she loved to her daughter. “Mom, what have you done?” Jo raced towards her father and knelt down to check on him before standing to confront Ellen. “He’s a good man why did you do this?”

A good man, that was what everyone had always said he was. A good man. The anger that had settled to the bottom of her stomach rose more vicious than before. This time Jo saw it, she saw the anger and rage, the intent, and she turned. The knife came down in her back, pulling and cutting of tissue, scraping bone. The scream churned Ellen’s stomach but she continued stabbing. She flipped the body of her daughter over and continued stabbing her till her arm was weak and shaking, till there was nothing more than shreds of the daughter she had failed.

She hadn’t been able to protect her from her father, from hunting, from hell hounds, from the Winchesters. She hadn’t been able to protect Jo from herself. Warm blood soaked her clothes again, Jo’s blood layered with Bill’s and more of Jo’s. It was something she would never be able to wash off.

Her clothes still stuck to her as she woke from the dream. The cold sweat that had covered her body and the humidity of the room made it feel as if she was still covered in her child’s blood. She slip out the room after checking to see if Jo was breathing. There was barely a hint of light on the horizon as she sat on the steps of the porch. She may have been out of purgatory but at least there didn’t have to think, only react. Here there was too much time, time to sleep and let demons that weren’t from hell twist you. She had to fight this as much as she had to fight the monsters coming through the rift.


End file.
